


Chimaera

by Emeka



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Incest, Age Difference, Bittersweet Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, First Time, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Of Age in Setting, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-06 17:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: It was a dark and stormy night... when Grimalkin notices a poor boy out in the midst of it. Naturally his tender tendencies ultimately lead him to trouble.





	Chimaera

Grimalkin is staring wistfully out his kitchen window, hoping his produce will be fine, when he sees the boy. He feels instant concern; this isn't weather for anyone to be standing out in, much less a child.

He opens his front door in a few quick anxious steps and a crack of lightning whips across the sky. The rain had been muted to an urgent drumming in his house. Out here the sound is crisp and angry.

The boy is standing on the opposite side of the cobbled road, soaking wet but seemingly unconcerned. He only gazes up at the thunderheads.

Grimalkin tries to call to the boy over the dim, just to get his attention. It takes a few tries, but the boy looks over at him. Flatly, he thinks, somehow. He beckons. The boy slowly turns and comes, which is preferable to having to go out and drag him to townhall.

Another flash as he closes the door. Brontide in the distance that raises the hair on the back of his neck.

He thoughtfully regards the boy, who is small and pale, either naturally or from the chill. Fourteen or fifteen. Hair too wet to tell the color of. Dressed in a wet-clingy blouse and blue skirt, black tights and leather mary-janes. A school kid from out of town; he's noticed a lot of them the past few days.

"I have a nightshirt you can wear," Grimalkin begins, tapping his fingers together uncertainly. His instinct is to chafe the boy and fuss over him, but he still won't even look at him. "There's a bedroom down the hall you can dress in, then come do come sit by the fire. I'll make tea."

The boy only nods in acknowledgement, but he takes the shirt, so good enough. When Grimalkin returns with the tea, he's relieved to see him curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace. His knees are drawn up to rest his chin on, that timeless posture of youth.

"Black?" the boy asks, stirring a little to glance at him. 

"Yes," Grimalkin replies doubtfully. It's the only kind he likes himself, thus the only kind he keeps on-hand. Maybe the boy likes more delicate teas? But he takes it without another word, while stretching out his legs.

His face by itself, more visible now, is difficult to place in age; a slender upturned nose, but high, sharp cheekbones, with grey eyes large and cat-slanted, glimmering gold and silver from the firelight. He is both very waifish and very adultish.

Grimalkin sits on the other side, by the boy's bare pruney feet. "Are you here with your parents? Are you alright?"

The boy barely puts in the effort for a shrug. "School trip. From Rosalia. Something about seeing the rural countryside."

"So... what about your monitor?"

Silence again, but for the rain still pounding on the roof. The boy's ankles cross, drawing notice to his shapely curved fibula and tibia.

A different tack, then. "What's your name?"

A sip. His eyes close with it. "Rosette."

"A pretty name, for a boy from a pretty city. I'm Grimalkin--but everyone here just calls me Grimal."

"Odd name. For an odd man?" the boy Rosette asks, looking him now eye to eye. Even his gaze is strange, filled with young pride and old coldness. The iris on the shadowed side of his face is like a colourless chip of ice. "Since this town looks pretty boring."

Grimalkin smiles. "I suppose so. So what were you doing out there?"

Rosette looks away, back toward the flames. The purse of his lips makes it seem more like a thoughtful movement than an avoidant one. "I was being a little dramatic, in retrospect. But I was upset."

"About?"

He takes another drink, eyes looming for a moment over the rim of his teacup. "I'm a virgin. More than that, I don't even date, which gets me attention."

"Sounds like teenage trouble."

"Oh, no doubt. But all at once I'd had enough, and couldn't stand being trapped with them a second longer. So I snuck out."

He can picture how that sort of situation would get out of hand. Sexuality is a delicate subject even for most adults, nevermind growing kids. What a mess. "It's your own business."

"You'd think," Rosette says with an edge of heat, setting his cup down. For a moment he seems about to say something else. His lips move soundlessly, then press together and quiver. Grimalkin watches with growing alarm as his entire face crumples.

The boy cries in a reluctant manner, without any sobbing. His brow is tightly knit and his mouth is pulled down severely, like the tears streaming down his face shame him. He barely even sniffles. His knees are pulled back under his chin.

It hurts Grimalkin's heart to see a child cry in any fashion, but to do so in such a restrained way...

He scoots close, testingly touching his arm, then shoulder. "Sweet boy," he murmurs, "poor dear heart, come here."

Rosette does not come, but does not resist either, as he is held and stroked.

"I won't be a grown-up," he eventually whispers. Even his voice sounds all wrought and barely together. "I'll never marry, or have a family, so why bother with any part of it?"

Grimalkin does not reply. He can only guess at what he means--insecurity? terminal illness?--and a speaking role might not be needed of him at the moment.

He continues stroking his hair. It's drying to blonde.

They sit together awhile, listening to the thunder and howling rain, Rosette gradually leaning against his chest. They're breathing as one, in and out, to the same rhythm. He is starting to feel pleasantly sleepy when Rosette speaks.

"You can do it." More of a half-daring whisper, really.

"Do what?" he asks muzzily.

"Take my virginity."

His mouth goes dry. "You're a child."

"Fifteen is legal," Rosette says, sitting up and slightly away to look at him reproachfully. "At least in Rosalia. Is it different here?"

"No, but... why? To prove your classmates wrong?"

He sniffs disdainfully. "They're annoying, not important, and I don't plan on telling anyone. It would just... just be for me. Before the end."

"I don't think it would work out. Besides, I haven't had sex in years, and never with a male."

"And I haven't at _all_ but I'm sure we'll figure it out. Please?" His eyes are so big and grey. "Our secret."

Fifteen. Old enough to consent to anyone who isn't his teacher, or in some other direct position of power. Grimalkin is just a stranger, so he definitely isn't that, but he still feels guilty as he allows his hands to fall down Rosette's sides. He feels a bit underfed for his age. Maybe he is ill.

Rosette lifts his face. Even his eyelashes are blonde, Grimalkin notices, as he leans down to lay a kiss on his lips. It starts chaste, like a parent kissing their child goodnight--not really a mental image he needs--before slowly deepening, only going further as Rosette initiates.

His mouth is small, compared to his.

Grimalkin feels the soft jut of his hipbone and the crease leading to his pubic area. No underwear. The beginnings of fleecy hair.

"You're sure? Truly sure?"

"Yes." The expression on his face is more somber than he would have guessed. "Just go slow."

He guides him down and explores. Prior to this, he has only slept with one woman. He is thirty-eight, a bit of an old dog, but not, hopefully, too old for a new trick.

Rosette's body has an angularity to it, but his skin is soft and warm. Slim hips and a slightly concave stomach that jerks when brushed against. His nipples are small and pink, a little hard either from the cold or anticipation. They bead even tighter with a little squeezing.

"Can I see you too?"

His hands pull at Grimalkin's clothing before he can even reply. He lets his shirt be pulled over him and his pants unbuckled. He doesn't mind but he feels a little silly. It's not like he's gotten ugly with age, but he's not a teenager. Silver is replacing gold at his temples, and his face is lined with good-natured lines from smiling, around his eyes and mouth. Gardening and household chores have kept him fit but there has nonetheless been a gradual wasting of his muscles, and thinning of his skin.

But undoubtedly it will make Rosette more comfortable to not be the only exposed one.

He looks like he's scrutinizing him. It makes him feel somewhat shy. "You're leaner than I thought."

"String bean," Grimalkin agrees, smiling. He feels around Rosette's body more, heading slowly down to his groin. His pubic hair is scant and almost as blonde as the hair on his head. The penis he gently dandles feels fully erect, and not a bad handful. Rosette touches him in return, in more neutral area.

He jumps when one of those wandering hands touches his. They clasp. "I think there's supposed to be some kind of preparation, for two men. I don't have anything specific to that, though."

"Anything else?"

"Massage oil, maybe." He has carrier oils to make potions with, but... it's not like he can say that.

He fetches a bottle of oil from his bedroom and returns to the couch. 

He is as slow and careful as he knows how to be. Rosette responds slowly, then quietly, with his knuckles pressed against his mouth.

As long as he's feeling something at all... knowing that he is gives him pleasure different from the bodily kind he's experiencing. Not that he is feeling any lack of that. Rosette is so small and it has been so long for him.

He can't help coming first. It's ungentlemanly, he knows, but he can't hold back.

He holds himself in all the way as he does, the both of them trembling. When he pulls away he takes concerned notice of Rosette's flushed face and teary eyes. "Was it too much?"

"It was nice," he murmurs into his hand.

"Sorry it was over so soon. We can try again in a while, and I'll last longer then."

Rosette laughs in a short, dry bark. His tone is teasing, but not mean. "It must have been just about your first too."

They cuddle together comfortably for the next hour, listening to the rain. Rosette's erection softens and hardens against his belly by turns. At the end of their rest period, when Grimalkin feels ready to continue, they are almost mutually practicing deep-kissing.

The next time is longer, slower, better. Rosette makes more noise than just sighing, and his hands grow braver, eventually settling for digging into Grimalkin's shoulders. He screams behind his clenched teeth when he comes.

Grimalkin comforts him through his shakes and the tears again slipping from his eyes. He wants to be good to him, over and over.

He does what he can in this vein throughout the rest of the night. Again and again they bed, until Rosette has run dry of his tears and pursues him eagerly in turn.

The sun is shining when morning comes. It'll still be miserable out with the mud and debris, but it's still a nice thing to wake up to.

They had gone over to the bed some time during the night. The whirlwind of blankets makes it look like there was a storm in here too.

Grimalkin blearily watches Rosette sleeping for a moment to take in how his cheek is adorably squished against his arm before regretfully waking him up. But he needs to take his contacts out, and no doubt his monitor has been worried sick about him, wondering where he's been all night. 

(just sleeping with an older man)

He brushes the thought away. He hadn't forced him into this, or even suggested it.

Rosette stirs, stretches beneath the sheets, and then smiles up at him in a self-conscious, trying to be brave way. "My whole body feels sore."

"Mine too."

He sits up. "I expect I should be going back now."

"Your clothes are in the dryer. Back room, by the kitchen." It had occurred to him at some point last night it should be done, during another break.

"Thanks."

Rosette leaves and when he returns, he looks like any other schoolboy. "So," he says, grinning, "do I look debauched?"

"Positively."

They share a laugh and then he is gone for, Grimalkin assumes, the rest of his life. And speaking of life, he does have one to get back to. He spends his morn and noon attending to his chores; feeding the cats, bemoaning the state of his garden and doing patchwork, making his tea and meals. He is ready for things to go back to normal.

He does not anticipate the knock at his door, or the person there.

"Doesn't anybody watch you?" he asks, trying not to scold, but he does feel irritated. Who lets someone under their care get away from them in a strange place?

"Sure they do. I'm just good at getting my privacy." Rosette lifts an eyebrow, like this is all very normal. "You gonna let me in?"

Grimalkin steps aside, aware even as he's doing it that he shouldn't. "I thought it was just for the night," he says, carefully shutting the door behind them.

"We go back tomorrow, so I figured I'd make the most of it." He seems more than comfortable making himself at home. He removes his shoes by the door and walks right in to the living room, where he sprawls himself out on the couch. "And since you're only doing it with me, I figured you'd appreciate it too."

Grimalkin follows him, torn between feeling amused and exasperated. "I wasn't a virgin, you know."

"You said your first was a woman, right?"

"Yes." He feels ashamed going on. "I wasn't in a position to look after a family, though, so she left when she got pregnant."

"Did you like her very much?"

"I loved her," he says sincerely, sitting down beside him among the cushions. "With all my heart. Aalis was the only one who'd"--known about me, but he hesitates to go so far as admitting his witchhood to this boy, then stops completely. "What's wrong?"

"Aalis?" Rosette has gone quiet and still, except for what it takes to speak." She left you? How long ago?"

Even before he answers, he sees the truth of it. He sees the resemblance he hadn't noticed because he hadn't been looking for it--why would he, for the woman who has been out of his life for sixteen years now?

The same blonde hair he has, the stubborn chin and cat-slanted eyes, her delicate jaw and nose, even her grey eyes, although the expression of them is different. She could be willful too, but mostly she was gentle, and it made her eyes softer. Like mist.

"No," he says, unsure what he is refusing. This entire impossible situation maybe, or the fact that he had spent all of last night bedding his son. Yet he doesn't feel as repulsed as he thinks he should. Shocked and disturbed, yes... but it is difficult to see this stranger, however much he resembles his parents, and immediately think of him as a son. "What happened to her?"

"Sick n' died," Rosette replies in a small, numbed voice. "I'd always wondered who my father was. She never said anything."

"She wouldn't have. We agreed the child would be only hers, so..." what should he say? Sorry for never being around? For not being a father? But if he was in his place, he'd want an explanation, not an apology. But that he cannot give.

There is a long uncomfortable silence. When Rosette speaks, his voice is dismayingly shaky. "What do we do now?"

"You go back tomorrow."

"And you'll stay here."

"Yes."

Rosette comes in closer on his knees, and it really isn't fair, the way his tears bead like little jewels on his lashes. "If nothing is going to change, then we don't have to act like we know."

"You want to--" but Rosette's mouth is already on his, and his simple stupid body reacts the same way it did last night. Son or not, his skin is still soft and warm, his lips still sweet. The idea of their shared blood is drugging his head. It doesn't feel quite real.

They still bed, and he tries to keep anything else out of his head. Neither of them need it, so he doesn't think about the reasons when it seems at one point they are both crying a little.

They have lived their entire lives without each other. When morning comes and Rosette must leave, he reminds himself that going with him isn't the best thing, the right thing, to do.

If there had ever been a chance for them, it disappeared last night.

**Author's Note:**

> "your draft will be automatically deleted on" *inigo voice* NOT TODAY


End file.
